


The Serpent and the Lion

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because I killed him off, Dry Humping, Everybody's magical, Except for Mycroft, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2199204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's slytherin, John's a Gryffindor. Moriarty makes things interesting.<br/>Because bravery has always been the nicest word for recklessness. </p><p>//Because the colours on their scarves might not match, and their personalities might clash in the biggest of contrasts, but at night, right there, when John presses his lips to Sherlock's, they don't feel that different at all.//</p><p>Give it a try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work of Fanfiction, so please, uh, be gentle with me. It's a crossover with Harry Potter.  
> The story will go until A Study in Pink. 
> 
> If you read this and also happen to work in entertainment (yes, Graham Norton, I AM looking at you!), please, be so kind and do NOT use my work. I repeat, I do NOT give my consent for you to use this!  
> Also, if you are, by some weird coincidence, Moffat/Gatiss/Famous, do not read whatever I write. If you read this...close the page. Now. It's not too late yet. Because my writing is horrible and you will hate me. And yourself for reading.

Sherlock's not beautiful, no. His body is a mix of sharp angles and wiry limbs, he's too pale, too tall, too much. And his mind is just the same. It's no pretty place filled with happy memories and every day concerns. No, his is a dirty canvas stained with the blood from his brother and the roar of petrol catching fire. And people don't like Sherlock.

His schoolmates call him _Freak. Psychopath. Cunt. Cock. Twat_. And even when they're only eleven and they do not know what it means, they do not know what a word can change, it still hurts.

His teachers call him broken. Depressed. Mourning.

Sherlock always sits in the last row, head bent over a book, notes and the pen in his hand moving steadily. Never talking. Never looking up.

And when he turns eleven, everything changes. There's a letter, delivered by an owl that bites in his finger and leaves him to sulk in his room for three hours without even looking at the paper. His parents call him down again, the letter in his mother's hand. And Sherlock can tell this is important. This is weird. Because his father's frown almost reaches his receding hairline and there's an old woman sitting next to him. She's dressed weird.

 

“Well, Sherlock,” she starts, and she sounds old. Ancient. Sherlock sits where his mother shows him to by a stretch of her arm and looks down. And for a brief moment he thinks this is another one. Another one of those women his parents want him to talk to. He doesn't like them, they always tell him to accept it and to talk about it and to think of it. And Sherlock does not want to think about it.

“Sherlock,” his mother says, softly, “Darling, this is Mrs. Mcgonagall. She works at a special school. She's here for you.”

And Sherlock doesn't understand. Are they sending him away to one of those boarding school especially made for psychological unstable kids? Because that's what people do, don't they? When they can't cope with a problem any more, they search for somebody else to take care of it.

“Yes,” The woman, McGonaggal, says, “I work at Hogwarts.” And Sherlock can feel his eyebrows raising and he looks up.

“I don't know that school,” he whispers, hoarsely. “Never heard of it.”

And he really hasn't. He has looked them all up, the schools for children like him, the _institutions_ for children like him. The St. John's in Oxford, the St. Barts Hospital that offers an extra program for traumatised children, the St. Jude's in Bath. But no Hogwarts.

“Ah, well. That's not surprising, honestly. It's a very special school, and we want you to go there, because you are a very special boy.” Sherlock sighs at that. Yes, he's special, he knows by now.

“It's a school for witchcraft and wizardry.”

Sherlock freezes at the words witchcraft and wizardry. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean, my dear, is you're a wizard.”

He wants to laugh at that, really. But something in the eyes of the old woman keeps him quiet. She looks so sure, so unbelievably sure of the fact that he's a wizard. Well, supposedly.

“Wizards don't exist.” It's all he says, and as far as he knows it's the truth. Magic is an invention of fantasy and wishful thinking that occupies the minds of authors and children and people who like to believe _too much_. It's not real. Sherlock is a smart boy, even for his age, and he knows that something like that is just impossible. Something like magic does not exist.

“Honey,” his mother stands up and moves over to him. Crouching, she lifts her hand and strokes his curls out of his face. “Your brother, Mycroft, he went there too.” And Sherlock can hear her voice breaking when she tries to say his brother's name without tearing up, and it causes him to look down again.

“Yes, Mycroft Holmes, he was one of the best students we ever had.” McGonagall tells him and smiles thinly. He wants to wipe it off her face. She doesn't know Mycroft. She didn't know Mycroft.

She has no right whatsoever to talk about Mycroft like she really knew him.

“Mycroft went to St. Richards. Just like my parents told me.” There's a hint of stubbornness colouring his voice and he knows he looks ridiculous right now. Pouting and arms crossed and pretending the carpet is much more interesting than everything around him.

His father coughs, as if to announce he's finally going to grace this conversation with some words from him, causing Sherlock to look at him. “Mycroft really went to Hogwarts, Sherlock.” And Sherlock should be surprised at that, because, yes, his dad is always right and no, his father has never lied to him, but the only thing he notices is how his eyes go hard at the mention of Mycroft's name.

Mycroft had always been his favourite one.

“Don't you recall, well, special things happening around you? Inexplicable things?” The woman asks, and smiles a smile that is supposed to be reassuring.

“No,” he answers. And that's a lie. Sherlock could write essays and books on all the things he can't explain. Not even he, brain the size of Europe, can explain why Anderson who called him a cunt had lost all his hair the next day. Neither can he even remotely explain how the neighbours cat who killed his guinea pig was found dead the next day. But weird things happen, it's nothing to make a fuzz over. It bother him, yes, but it doesn't mean he's a wizard.

As he looks up to face her, he can see she saw straight through the lie. “Yes,” he admits at last, looking down again.

They tell him it's okay to go up to his room again, and he happily obliges. Flees the scene like a convict they can't capture yet because there's not enough evidence. He locks himself up in his room that night and tries to sleep.

His dreams are filled with Mycroft, face covered in blood and bones sticking out, telling him to accept his fate and visions of himself killing cats without touching them.

 

They take him to 'shopping' the next day and Sherlock still thinks this is all a mistake and still believes in no such thing as magic. Three hours later, when the trunk is filled with books on spells and transfiguration and potions and in his hands he carries a thin stick (Oak. Dragon heart fibre. 9 inches.) he has to admit this is all starting to feel a bit too real. The stick, or as the owner of the shop called it, the _wand_ , started glowing and heating up the moment he touched it. As if it connected with something deep inside of him. It tickled a bit. Felt weird. Not necessarily bad.

His parents tell him they'll drive him to King's Cross on the first of September, where he will take the train to a place he still doesn't believe exists in the first place. He just sighs and waits until they arrive home.

That night, he can't sleep. He's sitting on his bed with his wand in his hand, waving the stick around unexpectingly. At first, nothing happens. But after trying out some various moves, the end suddenly starts to glow. It's only a bit, and only for a second, but it's enough to scare him shitless. Dropping the wand and ducking beneath the covers of his bed, he briefly wonders if his brother experienced the exact same thing. Did Mycroft know he was special? Different? A wizard? He falls asleep like that, wand on the ground and the sheets pulled over his head.

 

 

It's a solid wall. A solid brick wall. Sherlock looks at his parents with a mixture of curiosity and disbelieve. They want him to run against _through_ that wall?

“Just go through, you won't get hurt.”

That's easy for her to say.

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes, his knuckles turn white as his grip tightens around the cart, bracing himself for impact. But it never comes.

He opens his eyes again and is greeted by the sight of a sign that actually says 9 ¾. And to his utter surprise, his father and mother follow suit, breaking through the red stone as if nothing were there to slow them down. Okay, Sherlock should really reconsider everything he ever said about magic.

His father helps him to get the trunk in the train, and looks for an empty place for Sherlock to sit down. Sherlock follows suit, walking behind him, eyes glued to his father shoes in front of him.

“Here's a free seat,” his father tells him, and Sherlock just nods. It doesn't matter who else is sitting there, because they won't like him anyway.

 

As it turns out there's only one other boy in the department. He's young and blond and smiles at Sherlock the moment their eyes meet.

“Hi, I'm John. John Watson,” he tells Sherlock while stretching out his hand. Sherlock takes it and lets it go in the same moment. “I'm Sherlock,” he murmurs. They sit in silence for a while before John makes another attempt to break it.

“I didn't even know I was a wizard, god was I surprised!” he exclaims happily, and Sherlock nods. “Neither did I.” And after a brief moment of silence he adds, “Do you know anything about Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” John answers, “I read all about it. There's a book called Hogwarts, A History and it's amazing. I really hope to end up in Gryffindor!” Sherlock gives him a questioning look. “Gryffindor, never heard of it.”

“Are you kidding me? Okay, every student is sorted into one of the four Houses. Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. In which one you land is depending on your character.”

The smile John sends his way is blinding, and Sherlock can't help but wonder why he's even talking to him. Nobody ever talks to him.

“What do you have to be to get in Gryffindor?” And Sherlock hopes the answer is something along the lines of smart and cunning, because that's what he is, and John appears to be nice. So yes, being in the same house as John would definitely be nice.

“Brave.”

Well, shit.

“Bravery, it's the nicest word for dumb,” Sherlock mutters to himself and adds, louder, “Okay. Cool.”

“Yes! Maybe we will end up in the same house! That'd be so cool. You could have the bed next to mine in our dorm of course!” By now Sherlock really wishes Gryffindor was more about slyness and ambition instead of bravery. Bravery is stupid. It's dangerous and it's no word to describe Sherlock with. He'll never end up in Gryffindor.

 

In Hogwarts, when he sits down on the chair after his name has been called out, he is more than surprised to hear a phantom voice talking to him.

“Well, well, what have we got here. Hmm.”

“You can talk?” Sherlock asks, looking upwards, almost going cross eyed.

“Yes, of course, I'm a _magic hat,_ you silly boy. Well, you are very smart, Holmes. Just like your brother. Oh, he has been a great Ravenclaw. But no, that's not your house.”

He's relieved to hear that, John told him Ravenclaw is filled with nerds and idiots who only talk about school and science.

“You're also arrogant. Like to be alone. Very cunning. Yes, yes, I think this one's a clear case, definitely _Slytherin_!”

He stands up as McGonagall takes the hat away and walks up to the green and silver decorated table. He sits down, eyes fixated on John.

_Please be a Slytherin too._

 

He isn't. John's Gryffindor.

 

 

John finds friends immediately, and soon enough he's accompanied by two other boys Sherlock recognises as Lestrade and Stamford everywhere he goes.

Sherlock hasn't found any. He barely speaks with the people of his house, he doesn't like them. The first day they told him something about purebloods and muggles and mudbloods and as he answered his parents are muggles they all looked at him with an expression he knows well enough.

Despise. Disdain.

 

John sits next to him in potions and transfiguration, and he's still nice to Sherlock. Even when Lestrade eyes them weird for talking.

“Gryffindors and Slytherins are supposed to hate each other,” John explains to him while he writes down what Snape wrote on the blackboard.

Sherlock nods. “Heard about it.”

They start working in silence, and Sherlock finds out soon enough that he's good at this. Snape never comments his work and never tells him to do anything differently. It flatters him. A bit.

John's envious at that. This flatters him more.

“Good work, Holmes,” Snape tells him when they leave the room one day, and Sherlock turns around. “Watson and Holmes, sir. John helped me,” he tells Snape, silent.

“Whatever.”

John smiles at him, no, beams at him. “Thank you.”

 

Sherlock's good at school. He's good in every subject that fills his schedule and he's one of the best students of their year.

John's not. No, John's a troublemaker. He's a classclown, an idiot. Because John's a Gryffindor and Gryffindors don't waste their time with schoolwork, no, Gryffindors want to achieve noble things and defeat dark wizards.

 

Sherlock knows this because John told him. On the train ride back home for the Christmas break.

“I wish I could make myself useful.” It's all he says, and Sherlock isn't sure if he's supposed to answer or not. But curiosity has always been stronger than his self-restraint.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, like, I don't know. I always wanted to become a soldier, a fighter. Making a change etc. But now I'm at a school for _wizards_.”

“You could become an Auror.” And Sherlock knows that's not what John wants to do, Aurors need straight As. Aurors are patient, smart, blend in. John's not like that. John's strong, brute force and never thinking through.

“No,” John voices Sherlock thoughts, “When I finish Hogwarts, I'm going to join the Army.”

The rest of the ride home is silent.

 

When he returns from Christmas break, John sits down next to him at the welcoming meal. That's weird. That's abnormal. It's probably something that should now be written into Hogwarts A History. A Slytherin and a Gryffindor, sitting together in the Great Hall.

The other Slytherins stare at John with disgust, but he gracefully ignores it.

Sherlock admires him for it.

 

“I need help,” John announces one day, causing madam Pince to look up and shush him with a movement of her finger.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock whispers, careful to stay as silent as possible.

“I need help with my transfiguration essay. Please, help me, Sherlock. Please!” John answers, and completes the request with a ridiculous gesture of clenching his fists together as if he's praying.

Sherlock sighs and takes his paper and feather. “You just wrote the title and your name, John.”

“I know. Could you write it for me? That'd be great!”

“Good. But only once!”

It doesn't just happen once.

 

 

It's his birthday, and he wakes up to John in his dorm. Standing in front of his bed, a wrapped gift in his arms.

“I wanted to say thank you for the essays, and well, it's your birthday,” John starts, hands fumbling with the small, thin package. “And the schoolyear ends tomorrow, so I thought, why not give you something that will remind you of our friendship.”

Sherlock is surprised. Surprised and a bit taken aback. He accepts the gifts with shaking hands and all but tears off the red, shiny paper. It's a photo. A magic photo. It shows him and John, two differently coloured scarves decorating their necks, white puffy breath escaping from their mouths. Photo-John and photo-Sherlock are waving towards the camera, grins too wide and hands on each other's shoulders.

“Thank you,” he whispers, because there's nothing more to say.

_Thank you for giving me this. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for liking me._

 

 

The photo's beautiful, really. But Sherlock wishes he could change one thing. If he could, he would take John's scarf and repaint it. Silver and green.

He would make them the same.

He wishes they were the same.

 

-

-

 

It's his sixth year, and a now sixteen year old Sherlock walks out of the Great Hall with John Watson by his side.

“I swear, I'm not kidding you. Snape actually told him to sod off and be ashamed of himself!”

John's voice is coloured with laughter, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Sherlock snorts and answers, “Sure he wasn't talking to you?”

This earns him a playful slap on the shoulder and a chuckle.

Sherlock likes it when he makes John laugh. It makes him want to smile and scream out _look what I did. Look who I made happy. Look who wants to be my friend!_

“Are you going to the library later?” John asks him as they walk through the empty hallway.

“Yes,” he answers, and as he sees John's hopeful smile he adds, “And no, I won't be writing your essay.”

 

 

John has changed. The young, hyperactive blond evolved into a confident, golden boy. 16 years old and trailing stardust, a bright flash of light everybody wants to touch and wants to be touched by. He makes the girls fall for him and the teachers love him as if it's all he ever meant to do.

But Sherlock knows him, and Sherlock knows he is meant for something bigger. John is destined to become something big.

It's the childish wish that took over his capricious heart, and it stayed there. It cut valleys into his tissue and settled down. Filled his sinews and veins with the wish for more. More danger. More adventure. _More of everything Sherlock is not._

 

His body also changed. Years filled with quidditch practice made his chest broad and his legs toned. He's the apotheosis of athletic grace and pure force.

And when Sherlock watches John while he soars in the sky like it's all he's destined to do, it makes him feel weird.

The looks the girls give John make Sherlock feel possessive. Jealous. It makes him want to growl _mine_.

The way his quidditch outfit sticks to his skin when he's slick with sweat make his breath hitch and his skin tingle. It's weird.

It's uncomfortable.

It's like his heart is on fire and his stomach is ready to give up. A heavy weight pressing on his lower abdomen.

And Sherlock is smart, yes. But he can't place it. He can't give it a name.

But he's smart enough.

He knows it means trouble.

 

It's no surprise he's a Gryffindor, Sherlock thinks as he looks at John. Gold and red. Stardust and fire, it's everything you need to describe John Watson. He's glitter and neon and fiery courage. He's everything Sherlock isn't and it makes him want to grab John's hand and press his lips to John's. As if to capture the sparkle that lights up John Watson. Hogwarts radiates magic and glamour, and John's just the same. John's the flicker of a wand, accompanied by sparkles and the warm feeling of magic running through your veins. He's the casting of a spell and the brewing of a potion. He's a symbol for everything magic stands for, a symbol for everything Sherlock wishes he was.

Hogwarts is made for John, and he rules it like a true king.

 

“Would you like to spend the Christmas holiday at my house?” John asks him one day, and Sherlock happily agrees. It sounds nice. Two weeks filled with the company of his best friend. His only friend, for all it matters.

 

John's house is huge. It's huge and it's old and it radiates the distant charm of a fancy heritage.

His parents and his sister don't. Harriet is older than John, approximately two years and they don't get along. Harriet is a rebel, just like John, but she doesn't know boundaries. She doesn't know where and when to draw the line, crossing it like an obstacle on a jumping parcour. Alcohol and drugs fill her nights and her brother resents her for it.

She also resents him, but for an entirely different reason.

She's jealous. She's jealous because John is a wizard and she has nothing special upon her. No gift. No talent.

Nobody tells this to Sherlock, of course, but he can still see it. And at night, when the parents are asleep and he sees Harriet sneaking out of her window again, he asks John how he feels about her.

John isn't surprised he knows, because Sherlock always knows. Always.

John asks him about his family instead. Sherlock doesn't answer.

 

They share a bed. Not because the family doesn't own a guest room, no, it's because John asked Sherlock. And it's nice. Like brothers. And maybe that's why Sherlock wakes up every night bathing in sweat. The memory of his brother dying hadn't haunted him for a while now, and he had already been hoping it was going to be lost forever. But it's not. It's still there. It's there when he wakes up next to a sleeping John. Breathing fractured and a cry on his lips.

He lies down again, but he can't find sleep.

“You awake?” John's voice suddenly reaches his ears, and he knows there's no use in denying by keeping silent.

“Yes,” he answers, out of breath. Heart beating too hard.

“What's wrong?” John turns around so they're facing each other.

“A dream. A nightmare.”

“Who's Mycroft?” John asks slowly. “You were saying his name.”

Sherlock tries to calm down, tries to gather himself, but the sound of Mycroft's name out of John's mouth turned all the gates wide open. Memories smothering him, and they're blazing hot. Burning him.

“He is...was my brother,” he manages to say and a whimper escapes his mouth. It's painful, so very painful.

“What happened?” John says while skidding closer to him. He's so close. Sherlock can count every eyelash, every freckle, every speckle of green in his blue eyes.

“A car accident.”

John doesn't pressure him to keep on talking, he doesn't tell him it's okay, because it really isn't. And it's more comfort than Sherlock ever wanted to find.

John lifts his hand and it brushes over his shoulder, sending shivers down his spine. The clock on John's table reads 00:05.

“Happy Christmas,” Sherlock whispers.

John smiles a sad, thin smile. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

They stay silent for a while, and Sherlock's counting John's heartbeat. The smell of peppermint toothpaste and expensive soap invading his mind, keeping him from thinking. There's something so unbelievably _John_ about that smell.

He leans forward a bit, unconsciously.

“Do you want your present now, or in the morning?”

John's voice is soft and coated with nervous anticipation, and it makes Sherlock wonder.

“What about now?”

“Close your eyes,” is all John says, and Sherlock does, waiting for the feeling of John getting up. But that doesn't happen, instead, John gets even closer.

It's gentle. And it's no big deal, really. The innocent press of John's lips against Sherlock's.

And Sherlock has heard a lot about kissing. And none of it is true, it seems.

There's no explosion beneath his ribcage, no flash in front of his eyes. But there's this tingling sensation that starts in his stomach and takes over his brain. It's no searing fire, no crash and burn. It's the feathery touch of something Sherlock can't fully grasp yet. And it feels good.

The light touch of John's tongue gives it another meaning, because, well, friends can kiss. A peck on the lips, it's nothing really special. But John is _kissing_ him. As in, _really kissing_ him. His tongue is begging for entrance and his teeth scrape against Sherlock's lower lip. And yes, Sherlock gives in. And yes, Sherlock kisses back. And fuck, it's unpractised and weird and he can tell they both don't really know what to do. But it's perfect.

Because the colours on their scarves might not match, and their personalities might clash in the biggest of contrasts, but at night, right there, when John presses his lips to Sherlock's, they don't feel that different at all. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John fucks things up. Moriarty picks up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually tried writing smut, and I am terribly sorry for doing so.  
> I promise, John and Sherlock will get some happy times. In bed.  
> Just not in this chapter.

Gryffindors are stupid. This is of course not the first time Sherlock notices. No, he has always known. Yes. His fellow Slytherins don't like him either, but at least they leave him alone. Ignore him. But Lestrade and Stamford don't.

 

They kip hexed buckets of icewater over his head, levitate him upside down, call him the names he thought he had left behind when he set foot on the Hogwarts Express. They hate him. And the worse part is, John isn't helping him. No, John laughs with them and thinks it's all _oh so funny._

“They just want to have a laugh, c'mon Sherlock, it's not that bad,” he tells him one night, and Sherlock just nods. Because there's nothing to say and he knows that if he stops moping, John will lean in and kiss him. But that doesn't make it less easier. Not at all.

 

There's a new boy at Hogwarts, sorted into Slytherin. He's just as old as Sherlock and used to go to Durmstrang. They met on the first day of the seventh year.

“Hey, do you know where the Slytherin common room is situated?” He's short. An Irish accent colouring his voice, black hair slicked back. He has this twinkle in his eyes that promises trouble and he has a way of keeping his shoulders up straight that make him seem... intimidating. Sherlock doesn't like being intimidated.

“Dungeons. I can show you.” The boy immediately follows him, not even asking for his name. And when they reach the common room and Sherlock shows him their dorm, he's surprised to find a new, empty bed next to his. “Well, apparently we'll be neighbours,” the boy tells him with a wicked smile. Sherlock nods and sits down on his bed, contemplating whether or not he should ask for his name. He's never been good with socialising, always stayed on his own. John's the only one he ever let in, and that's not going too well.

“I'm James Moriarty, by the way. Call me Jim.” The introduction abruptly ends Sherlock's inner turmoil and causes him to smile briefly whilst answering. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“So, what are your NEWT subjects?” Moriarty asks, a lopsided smile still on his face. It doesn't reach his eyes.

“Runes. Potions. DADA. Magical creatures. Transfiguration. Spells.”

“Aspiring Auror?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, cocking his head to the side, “You too?”

Moriarty lifts his hands and chuckles, “Guilty as charged. So we'll have the same timetable and subjects. Nice, we can sit together.”

He doesn't ask it, no, he states it. Sure about the fact that Sherlock will sit next to him, as if knowing Sherlock normally sits alone because nobody wants to sit with him. Except in Potions of course, that's when he works with John.

He doesn't sleep well that night; he dreams about Jim and John working together on a potion and unforgivable curses cast by a deep voice with a faint Irish accent. He doesn't remember when he wakes up.

 

When he walks into the potions classroom the next day, he's surprised to see John paired up with Lestrade and Jim waiting impatiently at his desk. “I asked Snape if we could be partners,” Jim explains without looking up, already reading the instructions for this lesson. Sherlock doesn't answer, but during the whole two hours of their double lesson, he can feel John staring at him. Daggers and arrows. Piercing the skin at the nape of his neck.

In DADA, Moriarty takes the seat next to his as if it's been his the whole time. John sits two rows away from them, still staring at Sherlock with a mixture of emotions Sherlock does not recognise at first. When he walks into the great hall and doesn't find John at the Slytherin table, but instead seated between Stamford and Molly, he realises. John's jealous. Jealous and hurt. He sits down and pours some pumpkin juice into his cup, eyes still fixated on John's back. He doesn't even turn around. “Hey, can I sit here?” a deep, dark voice from his left asks, but doesn't even wait until he answers. Sherlock can tell who it is, of course. Who else but Jim? “What're you staring at?” He asks, mouth full with mashed potatoes, so it rather sounds like _whawe you weaing ag?_

“Nothing,” Sherlock answers silently before averting his gaze, but it's too late. Moriarty looks over and starts grinning. “Jealous on that Gryffindor fellow there for having such a hot girlfriend?”

Sherlock thinks Moriarty mixed something up, but then he sees Molly's hand on John's shoulder, her other resting on his thigh. He balls his fists and shoves away his plate, standing up as quickly as possible, not turning around as he walks towards the door. Not even when he hears Moriarty walking behind him, screaming something that sounds like _wait!_

 

Sherlock has never liked Quidditch, but he's watching it. Again. And only because of John, of course. Because John likes it when he's there, even if he can't openly support him. John is made to sit on a broomstick, Sherlock muses as he watches him flying through the sky. Puffy clouds and the vivid mix of red and gold surrounding him. Like a bird, free and silent and fast. They're playing against Slytherin, and Sherlock finds himself in the midst of shouts, catcalls and _boo_ s. Moriarty joined the Quidditch team almost immediately after transferring, and Sherlock has to admit he's good. Elegant. A green and silver dot in the sky, contrasting with the azure blue of the summer sky in the background. Sherlock knows this is going to be one hell of a match, he can tell by the way John stares at Jim and the way he doesn't seem to care.

 

Slytherin won. John didn't talk to him afterwards.

 

He's in the library, essay in front of him, feather in his hands. He only has five lines left, when suddenly he can feel someone sitting down next to him. “Hey,” a soft voice says. It's John. “Are you almost finished?” he asks, and Sherlock nods. “Ah, well, I still have to start it,”John says with a grin, and no, this doesn't surprise Sherlock. Because John never works and never delivers on time. With John you just never know.

 

Potions is amazing. Moriarty has a way of knowing exactly what to do, and how to not interrupt Sherlock while working. They're the best team Hogwarts may have ever seen, causing Snape to raise his eyebrows at the display of pure talent in front of him.

“Well, I never expected to ever say this, but I think this it the best felix felicitas I've ever seen in all my years of teaching,” he tells the class while bowing over Sherlock's and Jim's cauldron. “Amazing job, boys. I couldn't have done it better myself.”

Jim beams at him. John narrows his eyes.

 

That afternoon is free, and Sherlock uses it to sit on his bed, doing absolutely nothing of any importance. He's reading a book on muggle science, and to his utter delight, and the disdain of his dormmates who eyed it suspiciously, it's rather interesting. It's a book on forensics and forensic psychology. He doesn't even notice when Moriarty walks into the room, it's only as he lets himself fall down onto Sherlock's bed that he lifts his head. “So I was right today?” Jim asks, sounding only vaguely interested. “You are jealous of him.” Sherlock shakes his head, looking down. “No. Not of him,” he whispers.

“Oh,” Moriarty answers, and Sherlock can tell he understood by the way he starts grinning. “So you two were a couple?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sighs and lays down the book, he can't read while trying to hold up a conversation. “As in officially?” Moriarty asks, eyebrows raising.

“Well, we never...we never talked about it.” He realises how pathetic he sounds, no, John and he never defined their...relationship. But he had assumed they were dating, of course. Are dating. Sort of. At least he thought so.

“Ah, I see.”

Silence stretches between them, and it's not a bad silence. Not one of those people try to break by talking about the weather or quidditch.

The touch of Moriarty's hand on his shoulder snaps him out of it, makes him turn his head to face the other boy.

“You know,” Moriarty starts, and by the way Jim starts smiling he can tell he might not like what's about to follow, “You should forget him. He's a twat. A _gryffindor_.” He emphasises the last word and makes it sound like an insult, and Sherlock wants to say _no_. And Sherlock wants to say _I like John_. But something makes him keep quiet. They're close. Too close. He can count every quivering beat of Jim's heart; like the staccato drums Mycroft used to own, piercing the silence in steady intervals. Jim inches closer, mattress dipping underneath his weight. His breath caressing Sherlock's lips and James lifts his hand, cupping Sherlock's cheek. “You're always on your own, Sherlock.” And he can't answer. His mouth is sahara dry and his tongue is glued to his palate, a desert heat underneath his skin. “You live in this little bubble of solitude, never letting anyone in.” And Sherlock wants to protest, because he let someone in. He let John in. But then he realises he didn't. Not really.

Moriarty cocks his head to the side, leaning in even closer. “One day that bubble is going to burst, and I will be standing there, Sherlock. I'll be standing there with the needle still in my hands.” Every word is accompanied by a soft gush of warm air against Sherlock's mouth. His breath hitches and he can feel his heart jumping into his throat as their eyes meet again. Jim's eyes are almost black, and he stares into Sherlock's with a passion Sherlock hasn't seen before. Not in John's eyes.  
With John it's soft looks and careful touches. No aggressive invasions of personal space and no burning hands on his shoulders. He parts his lips unconsciously, he knows he only needs to bridge the distance, the mere inches that separate them. But Moriarty is quicker, and he can feel his lips on his own.

And no, Moriarty isn't kissing him. Not really. He can feel Jim's teeth tugging at his lower lip. Soft at first, increasing pressure until he tastes copper in his mouth. A whimper escapes his mouth, and Sherlock feels pathetic and weak; but Moriarty doesn't seem to care. They part again, Sherlock breathing heavily. Moriarty kisses his neck, emphasises every lick and every press of his lips with a scrape of his teeth. Leaving a wet trail of saliva that glistens in the faint light like stardust. A comet's tail.  
He can feel his hands clenching into the soft fabric of Jim's shirt, pulling him closer. He wants him _so much closer._ His trousers are feeling too tight and the pressure on his chest increases. Jim's a thunderstorm, sweeping rains and electric lights illuminating the darkest of night skies. A bang and a blast, passionate and fierce.

Jim's hands are fumbling with his belt, opening it with ease, with practise. He wants to stop him, but he doesn't. And as Jim briefly strokes his already hard cock through his boxers, it terrifies Sherlock. It terrifies him and scares him and it awakens something deep inside of him. A beast in his chest, demanding _more_. Jim pushes him down, lying on top of him. Pressing his groin against Sherlock's with a grunt and a moan, causing Sherlock's hips to stutter and his eyes to roll back as he feels their erections grinding together. Moriarty breathes against his neck, bites down again, sucking hard. Sherlock knows it will leave a mark.  
A mark for John to see. Jim speeds up, the need for friction rising fast; hearts igniting with lust and so many feelings Sherlock has never felt before. It feels like too much. He comes into his pants while his hands are buried in Jim's charcoal strands of hair, open mouth next to his ear, breath ragged and fractured. Jim follows suit, a wet patch decorating his grey boxers, lips still clinging to Sherlock's neck.

 

“Nice hickey, freak,” Lestrade comments with a grin as he walks past, making obscene kissing faces while touching his neck. “Shut up,” Sherlock murmurs, turning around. But before he gets the chance of walking away, he sees John staring at him. Eyes sad and smile slipping, hands around the waist of Molly Hooper. “Guess Sherlock finally found someone that like him,” John says, voice cold. Ice and snow and winter winds. “She must have some low standards.”

 

 

It's Christmas and Sherlock's at home. Seated at the dinner table, silence filling the room. Jim sits next to him, occupying the seat that once belonged to Mycroft Holmes. He can feel Moriarty's hand on his thigh, squeezing lightly. Reassuring. “So, you two,” his father starts, trying to hide his frown, failing miserably. Sherlock nods, covering James' hand with his own. “Yes, father. We are a couple.” His voice is shaking and he feels pathetic, but to his own surprise, his mother starts smiling. “Oh, that's wonderful, dear!” She exclaims, “Tell me about yourself, young man.” She demands, looking at Jim with a mixed expression of curiousness and gentleness.

“Er, I'm James.” Jim starts, showing off his most radiating smile, “I share a dorm with Sherlock and some other Slytherins.” If his parents don't know what Slytherin is, they don't ask, they just nod and gesture him to go on. “I want to become an Auror, just like Sherlock. We sit next to each other in every class.”

Sherlock still feels nervous. It feels weird. He has always thought John would be the one sitting here, at the dinner table. He always imagined it to be John that would hold his hand through this conversation. But it's not, and even though Sherlock would never admit this, it feels like something is missing.

 

A year ago he was lying next to John, lips touching hesitantly; probing and trying and finding out. Innocence and purity.  
Now, he finds himself trapped underneath Jim's body, breathing loud and heavy, hands trying to cover every inch of Jim's skin he can reach. Their clothes are lying on the floor, thrown away carelessly; shirts ripped open and buttons falling onto the ground. His hips stutter upwards, a soft moan escaping Jim's mouth at the contact.

His breath like waves breaking against Sherlock's lips, his fingertips searing arrows digging into the skin of his hips. Sherlock's heartbeat erratic and heat pooling in his chest, as if the feeling of skin against skin is enough to burn his heart out. He rolls him over, pinning Jim down, hands on the smaller boy's shoulders. He breaks the kiss and lifts his head to take a proper look, Jim looks like a piece of art. Lips shiny with saliva, red and swollen and _obscene_. It makes him want more. So much more.

He leans in for a kiss, and Jim sneaks their hand between them, taking both of their lengths in the soft, warm palm of his hand, stroking with expertise and confidence. The way he whispers Sherlock's name into his mouth make it sound as if he knows what he's doing, as if he's done it before. And no, Sherlock will never admit how much that actually hurts. He will never tell anybody about the feeling of envy, sparking beneath his ribcage. Cracks in ivory scaffoldings and solid bone.  
Rhythm steady and fast, relentless, causing Sherlock to thrust into the soft skin of his palm. It almost feels like to much, the friction of both Jim's cock hard and soft against his own and hand at once. The other boy's head falls back into the pillow, eyes closed and the muscles of his arms clenching. Jim comes first, the warm fluid painting his abdomen white. Sherlock wants to lick it off, taste Jim on his tongue. He thrusts into James' fist; erratic, fast. Until he collapses on top of him, burying his head in the crook of Jim's neck. Biting down, trying to silence his moan.

“Well, won't you look at the mess we made,” Moriarty whispers, chuckling.

 

 

 

 


End file.
